


The Art of Chirography

by Random_Human



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Calligraphy, FrostIron - Freeform, FrostIron discord exchange, Gift Exchange, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Loki Needs a Hug, Loki is a pest, Magic, References to Torture, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark's messy hand writing, and everyone knows it, slow(ish but not really)burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-04 00:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20461886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Human/pseuds/Random_Human
Summary: Much study has been put into the nuances of handwriting, those of soulmates in particular. Yes, slant, size and shape all play a part in determining one’s psyche, but among soulmates, similar writing styles often indicates a closer bond, a similarity in personalty and the like. For Loki, one who has spent his life practicing the time honoured art of Calligraphy, despite is’s womanly connotations,  to be bonded with one who cares so little for the intricacies of pen on paper - or on this case, skin - they would clearly be an ill-begotten match.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honestmischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honestmischief/gifts).
**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real men should be focused on their skills as a warrior, not pretty spells or writing. They don’t know it, but Loki’s ears are well-honed to palace gossip, and this is of much a similar vein. Only this time, it’s about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my giftee, lovewhatyoudo, who requested a Soulmate Au, with your hardwiring showing up on your Soulmate's skin - this is one of my fave trope and I've tried my best to fulfil your whole prompt!
> 
> I am hoping to update once a week, anyways, onwards and enjoy.

A careful scrawl, slow and precise, each letter at a perfect angle to the next, an even slant throughout, never rushing, nor pausing to stop. The small child continues at a steady pace, slowly inking out line after line. Time passes by, an interminable amount, the only sound filling the room is the splash of ink on parchment, the scratch of a quill as it drags across the heavy page, the draw and release of slow, even breaths. The room is a small oasis of peace inside a bustling hub of noise and movement. The act almost mediative.

**Crash!**

The peace is abruptly shattered with a resounding bang, a heavy wooden door slamming against dark stone, quick footsteps barely muffled by a thick carpet, a harsh shout, “LOKI!” The older boy calls, “LOKI! Come with me, away from that nonsense! The guards promised to show me some new moves if I was there by noon, come on! It’s almost time!.”

“Brother.” The exasperated voice sighs out, looking down at the once perfect page, now marred by a large slash of uncontrolled ink. “We train often, I do not see the need to follow the palace guard’s every move, we will learn soon enough.” He tries valiantly to fight a futile battle, what Thor wants Thor almost always gets, and right now Thor wants to be at the training grounds.

“Come on Loki!” The boy pleads, “Do you really want to be stuck in this boring room until dinner? It’s not like you’re doing anything important anyway.”

“Not important!” Loki all but snarls, “You will be calling this important when your Soulmate turns you down one day.” 

“She would never, I’m the crown prince of Asgard, I will one day be King, and the best warrior of all the lands. No maiden would ever turn me down. Now, away from this! Calligraphy is the art of women, you already have your Seidr, with this you’re on your way to becoming a Argr.” 

“_Ergi!_ I am no-!” Loki is interrupted as his brother’s patience wanes, the elder cutting him off as he all but drags him from the room.

“Come Loki, fighting practice, the work of real men!”

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

Loki checks his arms almost constantly. It is a fact of life, inevitable, unstoppable. It is a constant, something akin to the knowledge that Odin is the All Father, or that Thor, oft with Loki in tow - or on a few particular occasions, laying in wait - is a brat. Throughout his childhood Freya looks on approvingly, cultivating his skills in Seidr, teaching him the significance of the Soulmate phenomena, its tumultuous history through the Realms and above all else, the importance of well scripted calligraphy, both to help in mutual understanding and to attract ones potential partner.

What she hides from him are the never-ending whispers, the scoffs and the looks of mistrust, or outright disgust. 

But such things cannot be hidden for long, especially for one as curious as Loki. It is on one of his ventures around the city proper that he hears it, just as he raises his arm, pulling back the sleeve to check for any change, the whispers start. _Ergi_ they call him, not just a _Seidmaor_ but a _Seidskratti_. Real men should be focused on their skills as a warrior, not pretty spells or writing. They don’t know it, but Loki’s ears are well-honed to palace gossip, and this is of much a similar vein. Only this time, it’s about him.

Loki had found solace in the concept of a Soulmate, shunned as he is by those of his age, those of his status looking down on him for his preoccupation and those outside it judging his other pursuits. The Æsir are not a tolerant race. This is something Loki learns from a young age. Something he carries with him for life.

So he hides that part of him away. No, he will not bow to their will. He still openly practices Seidr, still spends an hour daily on his calligraphy, still prefers the company of his mother to that of his father. But he also learns to adapt, he transforms his lanky limbs into a wiry frame, concealed skill mixed with deadly grace. Throughout it all, he keeps up his little habit, in every free moment - after the heat of battle, when alone on watch, as he learns and practices his skills, he checks his arms constantly. Inevitably. Unstoppable.

Now, he just doesn’t share it with the outside world.

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

Loki is not sure at what age he became so jaded. The boy who once adored the concept of Soulmates has been buried by a life of  
chaos and mischief, interspaced with true times of worry and fear. He still values his Soulmate, but no longer holds them on an unreachable pedestal. He knows that this Soulmate will compliment him, complete him in a way. But like this, alone and strong, he is still his own person. He has to defend himself. He has learnt that the hard way. 

Yes, they will be the one to fit him. But they are not especially tailored just for him, nor he for they. Both are individuals, tied together by strings stronger than Fate, but for now held apart by those same forces. What was once unstoppable has now ceased to be. Loki rarely if ever checks his body for marks, the only time he writes on his own arms is during his Seidr practices, where the ideas run through his brain too fast and switching to new parchment is far too slow.

He is not worried about the growing age gap, the Æsir are long lived, those of other realms have similar lifespans, and for those shorter lived, well… Golden Apples are easily enough stolen. So he now see’s little point in compulsively checking for new marks, they will appear when they appear. 

That’s why he misses it, when the words finally begin to show. The first time he notices it, he is cleaning off the remnants of blood and sweat from a recent battle. Scrubbing harder and harder until he realises that no, this mark is not coming off, not going away. Hurriedly he pulls back his sleeve, retying his arm brace with a wave of Seidr he makes his excuses and retreats to the solace of a nearby forest, he cannot be barged in upon when no one knows where he has gone.

The words stand out, harsh and heavy against alabaster skin. Swiftly scrawled in dark ink, they are a mess of letters and characters coming together to form a disjointed story. Loki study’s the ‘words’ with intrigue, surprised to see the childish scrawl after a millennia of waiting. From his intended’s age, he assumes he still has a fair while of time to wait until he can meet them, but for the first time in a long time he allows himself to just sit there, basking in the knowledge that somewhere out there is the one that will truly match him.

At first Loki took the writing as a sign of hope, a sign of what was to come. But if this is what is in store for his future, he questions the sanity of the Norns. Although over time the writing has improved in size, now a small scrawl rather than the mindless scribbles of the past, it is clear that this is not the work of a child. Over the years the writing had swiftly changed and adapted to it’s owners needs, oft covering Loki’s arms, elbow to wrist, as the writer tried to cram all of their ideas in one, much too-small, space. From what little he could comprehend, the concepts mentioned were far above that of a child’s comprehension. But rather than improving in legibility, his so-called intended seemingly devolved over time. 

For a period the writing increased in neatness, as block letters gave way to a round but steady hand. Then, almost out of nowhere, the words had transformed into a hazardous scrawl. Small and slanted, peppered with an increasing amount of jargon and shorthand until it was all but illegible to Loki. 

Loki, who had hope to learn about his Soulmate through the inscriptions was sorely disappointed. Clearly, his partner cared little for the art of calligraphy. Something Loki had shaped his life about. Something that he had been taught is crucial to the Soulmate process. And they had discarded it all. Clearly they were no better than Thor and his ilk, prancing around like their Soulmate was below them, like it was a partners duty to decipher undisciplined their scrawl. To understand the thoughts and ideas penned onto available skin. Clearly, they had little care for him and his want to know them, to be able to meet them and understand them.

Much study has been put into the nuances of handwriting, those of Soulmates in particular. Yes, slant, size and shape all play a part in determining one’s psyche, but among Soulmates, similar writing styles often indicates a closer bond, a similarity in personalty and the like. For Loki, one who has spent his life practicing the time honoured art of Calligraphy, despite is’s womanly connotations, to be bonded with one who cares so little for the intricacies of pen on paper - or on this case, skin - they would clearly be an ill-begotten match.

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

So Loki tried to put it out of his mind again. To let the Norns do as they will, and to leave it up too fate to decide when and how he and his Soulmate would meet. But he often caught glances of those chaotic scribbles on the vulnerable skin of his wrist. At times it would run onto his hands, ink not his own staining his fingers. He had surmised that his mate was Midgardian from both their presumed age, and speed of development, as well as many of the foreign concepts mentioned. However, trying to understand the meaning of those words was like explaining the intricacies of Seidr to a thoughtless buffoon - read Thor - pointless and irritating.

He tried so hard to put it out of his mind, and for a time it worked. And then Jotunheim happened. And then Thor fell, rising again to newfound heights. And then, looking into the desperate eyes of one he had once called brother, looking up at the face of one he had believed to be his true father, looking out into the world he had once called home… Loki let go.

And he fell.

And fell.

And fell.

… But eventually, he landed.

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

Loki did not like to remember that interminable period. That time when falling was all he knew. That time when he saw things that no man or god was meant to see. When the eldritch creatures making up the very heart of the universe assaulted his all to fragile mind. Least of all, he did not like to reminisce on the time that came after. When, mind already on the brink of shattering, his body was contorted to match. When he was broken, pulled apart, and fixed. Again, and again, and again, and again, and aga-

No, he did not like to remember that time.

But here he was, standing in the aftermath. Shattered as much as they were able to, but pulling himself together as well as he knew how. They thought him broken. They thought him shattered and lost, little more than a well-trained dog. And for now he would let them think that, he would follow their plans, aim to _conquer_ Midgard, for a time at least. 

The tethers in his mind pulled against his tenuous control on what was left of his sanity. He knew he would have to comply, or he would face the consequences. But begrudging obedience is very different from active compliance, from active acceptance. They knew little of his true abilities, seeing him as no more than a brainless pawn, something to be used than discarded at will. So he would do their bidding for a while, biding his time until he could find the appropriate force to ‘stop’ him. He would not ‘try his best’ as it were, using his powers over chaos to the best of his currently limited abilities until this so-called invasion was stopped in his tracks.

The Mad Titan would regret forcing Loki into doing his bidding.

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

Loki was known as the God of _Chaos_ for a reason. This was something that Midgard had come to know very quickly. After all was said and done, invasion taken care of and Loki’s mind back to being his own, he had hidden himself away for a time. Letting Asgard and the realms believe him captured and subdued as he worked his way back to full-strength, reinforcing his mind and hold over his Seidr until he ensured that nothing like the torture of the Mad Titan and his Generals would ever be begotten unto him again. Then he put out to regain his title.

Midgard did not know what hit is. It was unprepared for the level of sheer _Chaos_ that followed Loki as he went. It had started out small, technology malfunctioning, things not happening as they should, spontaneous fires erupting and soon perishing. A wave of _something_ invaded New York, slowly and surely until everyone had felt its presence. It crept in slowly, leaving unrestrained chaos and mild amounts of destruction in its wake. Until it came to a head, Loki tiring of the speculation and intrigue, announced his presence to the world in a blaze of glory, a battle that presented such bewildering spectacles that it would entrance the populace for years to come.

And that was just the beginning. For months their game of chase continued, as Loki grew more confident in his position on earth, learning what he could of the petty Midgardians and their squabbles - only to better create chaos of course, one had to know the enemy after all. 

But Loki was known as the God of Chaos for a reason. He did not just bring chaos with him, but it followed him wherever he went, nipping at his heels and occasionally throwing even his plans to the wind. 

This was just one such instance.

He had teleported into Stark’s lab, intent on disturbing the peace only to find the room empty, bereft of it’s mad creator. So instead he had taken the time to study the area, silencing Stark’s alarms with nary a flick of Seidr he set about exploring the engineers space, intrigued with the inner workings of one of his most interesting enemies. That was when he saw it. A hasty scrawl that seemed all-too familiar. It was hidden amongst piles of forgotten blueprints, tablets and other detritus, but as he turned over page after page of antiquated creations he came to a realisation that both astounded and infuriated him.

Anthony Edward Stark was his Soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed thus far.
> 
> _** Translations **_  
_Æsir_ \- Members of the principal pantheon of Norse mythos  
_Áss_ \- Singular of Æsir  
_Ergi_ \- Unmanliness or feminine, cowardly etc.  
_Argr_ \- Adjective of Ergi  
_Norns_ \- The Norse Goddesses of fate  
_Seidr_ \- Magic  
_Seidmaor_ \- A man who practices women’s magic  
_Seidskratti_ \- A seidmaor who is also ergi  
These are the translations to the best of my understanding, if anyone finds any issues please comment below <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrenching the paper from his grasp Howard continued, “Stark men are made of iron, we do not have time for things as petty as Soulmates."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this is a bit late, the majority of it was written and edited today so hopefully its up to par. I had hoped to include more of the story developing, but didn't want this to get longer than the other chapter so this felt like a good place to stop.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

From a young age Anthony Edward Stark found himself transfixed with technology. The hum of a restored engine, the precise lines of a newly designed bot, the satisfaction of having the ability to _create_. But, to understand more about that which so entranced him, at the tender age of 3 years and 7 months (and 4 days to be precise) he asked his esteemed butler, one Edwin Jarvis, to teach him how to read - and in turn, how to write. He already had the basics of reading down, could distinguish each letter from another, but had little idea of how to pronounce or articulate many of them. And so, what many would consider a herculean task - teaching a three year old to _read_ \- begun. And it went spectacularly… well, the reading part did at least.

Tony picked up skills with an incredible speed, and with all the motivation in the world he took little time in learning to read, and by his fifth birthday was able to read texts that would challenge many grade school students. It was the writing part, however, where he found many difficulties. It frustrated him to no end that his pudgy fingers, unprepared and lacking in fine motor skills, could only produce shaky letters, disjointed words and jumbled sentences. He wanted to be able to write, to create, to store ideas as they flitted in and out of his mind at a whirlwind. Yes, the task of putting pen to paper took up arduous time he could otherwise use to _create_ but even more annoying was the sensation of an idea falling away from him, lost in the void of nothingness. He felt like his small body was betraying him.

So he practiced, among filling his brain with new-found information and theories, he spend his spare time writing, incessantly, whenever and wherever he could. It was one such occasion that his mother found him. He had escaped the clamour of stuffy suits, ties and adult conversation, ducking away into an unused room, sneaking a moment to himself and taking the time to pull out a pen, writing, in wonky words the ideas that filled his head. Quickly running out of the napkins he had nicked on his way out, he transitioned to his arms. As lost he was in his own world, he didn’t notice the clack of heels on marble floor steadily coming closer, until, his mothers disapproving voice pulled him out of his haze.

“Anthony Edward Stark, what are you doing hiding away in this place?” She questioned, “you know how important this event is to your father and I.”

“But Madre, it’s soo boring in there.” Anthony wined, “and I have so many new ideas, this is _much_ more interesting.”

“And what is _this_ precisely?” Her tone sharp with annoyance.

Wincing, he pulled out the napkins, displaying his ink covered arms in the process.

“Oh Anthony, I didn’t know you could write so well.” Her voice filled with shock.

“No Madre, it isn’t very good, but I am trying, Jarvis is a very good teacher.”

“Oh mio carino, no, this is wonderful.”

“Really?” He questioned, for while Maria stark was many things, a good mother was not among the titles she held. She was present in her son’s life as only a figure in the distance, passing by once in a while and disappearing soon enough in a whirlwind. This is not to say she wasn’t a good person, but by focusing all her attention on an increasing number of charities and functions she had little time for her son, not noticing his developments save for small moments, like this one.

“Yes, of course! You need some practice, but for your age this is astounding! Your Soulmate will be so lucky to have one so practiced as you, we must enrol you in calligraphy lessons at once.”

And so it was decided, Anthony was not completely sure what this _Soulmate_ thing was, but Jarvis and Anna were apparently Soulmates, and according to his Madre they were important. So he would learn calligraphy, not only for himself, but for his mother, and… Soulmate, whatever that meant.

Months flew by, as Anthony attended his lessons with a focus previously reserved for only his technological advancements. His skill grew, unsteady hand slowly transforming into rounded, flowing letters, still somewhat uneven due to his young age, but he was assured this would change in time.

These lessons however, were not meant to be. As, one day, exhilarated by his newfound skills, he ran into his father after a lesson, clutching a piece of paper filled with his latest practices.

“Anthony, what is this?” Howard demanded, catching signs of the copied poetry, “Did you do this?Why are you practicing the art of women? Surely your Mother’s influence,” He trailed off

“Father…” Anthony stammered

Wrenching the paper from his grasp Howard continued, “Stark men are made of iron, we do not have time for things as petty as Soulmates. Leave this flowery writing to women. This is not the man I raised you to be.” Howard could not comprehend the irony of his words, as no, this was not the man he had raised Anthony to be, for two reasons; First, Anthony was not yet a man, and secondly, Howard had hardly raised him at all. But wilful blindness is oft practiced among the privileged, and Howard was, if nothing else, very privileged.

So, Anthony’s lessons stopped as abruptly as they begun, and focused on pleasing his father as he was, he learnt to disregard the art of calligraphy, putting this ‘Soulmate’ concept out of his mind entirely and focusing on science and technology. His, writing, once artful and practice became the careless scrawl of one with too many ideas and too little time, it became increasingly peppered with shorthand and odd notations until one would need a cipher team to even attempt to understand it.

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

It was not until well into his teens that Tony reconsidered the notion of Soulmates. Of course he had heard of the term throughout his young life and into his schooling years, but isolated as he was from his peers, he overlooked it, and knowing of his father’s scorn for it, he all but wiped the term from his brain.

It was not until he started at MIT that the word ‘Soulmate’ gained any meaning to him. It began when his tendency to write on his arms was noticed, other students would stare and point, whispers - not the usual ones about his age and background - would build as he stepped into a room.

“How inconsiderate.” He would hear muttered as he walked into the cafeteria, “So rude!” Would be whispered as he moved along the hallways, “What must her parents think?” One particular utterance caught his attention.

But Tony, so removed from the lives of his peers, had no one to ask for advice. Removed from Jarvis and the comforts of home, he resolved to find another way to learn about this strange _Soulmate_ phenomena.

And that way came in the form of one James ‘call me Jim’ Rhodes - or Rhodey as he would soon become known. For the first few months of his schooling, Tony stayed in hotel rooms, unwilling to give up the comforts of his high class lifestyle but as time passed, Howard grew annoyed at the added expense, and so Tony found himself looking for shared accommodation.

Tony bulldozed his way into Rhodey’s life with the grace of a wild animal, building a friendship based on intrusive question and a shared love for the technology that consumed his life from childhood.

“Hey Rhodey, what are Soulmates?” He asked one day, as casual as could be.

“Come on Tones, you know what Soulmates are, everyone does, what are you playing at?” Rhodey snarked back, thinking it to be another of his games.

Tony felt something in himself snap, something that just knew the subject as important, and chafed at his inability to gain the knowledge he so craved. “No Rhodey, I don’t know what Soulmates are! Everyone just _assumes_ I do, just like they assume I’m a stuck up child, cruising along on his father’s fortune! You know that’s not true! You—“ Tony’s chest heaved as he let the pent up emotions out, “Look, can you _please_ just tell me, I know it’s dumb, I know-.” 

He was interrupted as arms wrapped around him, crushing him to his friends chest. Tony felt the steam that filled him, pushing him to the boiling point and beyond, evaporate, even as his breath came out in heavy pants.

“It’s okay Tones, I’m sorry, I know how much of a bastard Howard can be, I know.” Rhodey soothed, “Soulmates are…” He continued, “It’s a bit hard to explain, but Soulmates are our match, the ‘mate of our soul’ as it were. Whatever we write on our arms,” He gestured to the scrawl that covered Tony’s exposed skin, “shows up on our Soulmate’s until we wash it of. Have you ever found something on your arms that you can’t remember writing?”

Tony considered the question, a few moments popping into his mind, “Yes… Sometimes, when I’ve come out of a science binge, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but I have seen some strange characters from time to time.”

“That’s great Tones, it’s a sign that you have a Soulmate out there, by strange characters… They may not be writing in English?” Rhodey questioned

“Ah yeah, no, definitely not English…”

From there on, Tony and Rhodey kept an eye out for the odd markings to reappear on Tony’s skin, they where in language neither of them had ever seem before, and on further inspection appeared to be something with Nordic origins, but differing rules of syntax and grammar. It was indecipherable. At other times however, they found what was unmistakably Norse runes decorating Tony’s skin.

And thus Tony found a new passion. He spent his spare time, between classes and focusing on a new robot - one he was calling Dum-E for the meantime, due to it’s propensity for accidents… often involving fire extinguishers for some odd reason - he learnt Norse runes, and on the way fell headfirst into the complex world of Nordic mythology.

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

At the tender age of 21 Antony Stark found himself heading Stark Industries, under the iron fist of the board of directors and mentorship of Obadiah Stane . His years of practice had left him proficient in ignorance, and the enjoyment of bliss. He wasted away the years from 18 to 38 in a haze of alcohol and drugs, girls on his arm and the occasional man in his bed. He grew up, as it where, transforming from a small teen who on some accounts could be called ‘innocent’, to a man who was known as a genius, a visionary, a promiscuous playboy, eccentric billionaire and, a philanthropist.

He all but gave up on the idea of Soulmates. _The merchant of death_ they called him, who would want their soul to match _his_ of all people?

But ignorance is not always bliss. At times he felt the niggling sensation of wrongness, when the joy of creation was overshadowed by the knowledge of the sheer destruction those creations would bring. While the masses would be content with petty trinkets and advanced devices, the military contracts he held demanded blood and ashes, so he provided. He continued on, building and creating and destroying over and over again. Until he himself was destroyed.

It was not until he sat there, ears ringing from explosions, gusts of sand clouding his eyes, panic sending his body and brain into overload. It was not until he sat there, huddling in terror, and growing horror that he saw the results of his precious creations. It was not until he sat there, staring at a bomb with his name on it, that his ignorance shattered. 

Merchant of death, they called him. They were right to.

+++ _ The Art of Chirography_ +++ 

Anthony Edward Stark is 42 when he joins the Avengers. They are a mismatched team, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode, a collection of personalities who could not possibly work together, but against all odds _do_. They are shaky at first, rough enough around the edges to cut with the lightest of touches, grating against each other - picking at those frayed edges until they were raw and bleeding - until they are forced to stop, to band together, against a stronger threat than one another. Against Loki.

It is not until hours later, that Tony, exhausted but triumphant in the wake of battle, waiting for the Shawarma he impulsive suggested to be cooked, realises the importance of their union, and the impact that their newfound team will have on the world.

It is not until weeks later, that Tony, still recovering from his unexpected foray into space travel, and the presence of the Avengers in his life, comprehends the ease of their win, and the meaning that is has for their relationship with Loki, and his position against their team.

It is not until years later, that Tony, exhausted and recovering from a recent battle with Doom, discovers the significance of those runes he remembered etched on his skin, of that odd Nordic language and the hours he put into studying Norse Mythology.

It is not until years later, that Tony, staring uncomprehendingly at Loki, barely holding his own against a barrage of vitriol and curses that he came to a sudden realisation.

Loki Laufeson was his Soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed thus far.
> 
> _** Translations **_  
_Carino_ \- A term of endearment, directly translating to ‘cute’ can also mean sweet etc.  
_Madre_ \- Mother  



End file.
